Chapter 9 THE DEATH ANNIVERSARY
Her hands were still shaking as she picked up the broom again. The old building was silent, far too silent, like the walls themselves were holding their breath after what just happened.
She swept one stroke.
Then another.
But her mind wasn’t in the room.
Her thoughts kept circling around his words… the way he said it… the smirk… the confidence…
"Be my girlfriend"
"Not possible," she muttered, gripping the broom tighter. "Never"
But the memory of his eyes...dark, calm, unreadable kept sinking into her skin.
She hated it.
She hated him.
"I just want to have peace…" she whispered, and the moment the words left her lips, she broke. Her knees weakened and her throat closed.
She hadn’t known peace for years.
Not since her parents died when she was seven.
Not since her uncle took her in.
"Why is my life so complicated?" she cried out, her voice cracking as sobs ripped through her. "Why?"
Her phone began ringing.
An unknown number.
She hesitated… then answered.
"Hello?"
Her eyes widened and the phone slipped from her hand and hit the floor.
Her uncle’s voice echoed from the speaker.
"You can't run away from me, Anya. I will find you"
The line went dead.
"No!" she screamed, stumbling backward. "No, no, no!"
She collapsed on a dusty desk, burying her face in her hands as she cried silently, her entire body trembling.
Her peace… her freedom… her life…
slipping away all over again.
•••
NIGHT, THE VOLKOV'S MANSION
The dining hall glowed with cold luxury.
A long polished table stretched across the room, lined with silverware, crystal glasses, and plates that cost more than the monthly wages of every maid combined.
A massive chandelier hung overhead, scattering diamonds of light across the walls, but even that brightness could not soften the heaviness in the air.
Tonight was not a celebration.
Tonight was remembrance.
At the center of the table sat a cake decorated in gold and black, and on it, a framed picture of Alexei Volkov stared back at them. His perfect jawline, sharp eyes, and cruel smirk captured forever.
His death anniversary.
The family sat in silence, each wearing grief like a designer accessory... beautiful on the outside, empty on the inside.
Mr. Volkov cleared his throat, his deep voice breaking the tension.
"Do you think that son of yours will come?"
Mrs. Volkov’s head snapped toward the entrance instantly, eyes flicking there for the hundredth time.
"Give him time," she whispered. "He won’t want to miss his brother’s death anniversary"
Alina Volkov, the 21-year-old blonde sister who slapped Anya earlier, tightened her grip on her wine glass. Her eyes were soft and worried.
"He will come" she murmured.
Leonid Volkov, the youngest at 18, didn’t bother looking up from his phone. Earbuds in, thumbs tapping the screen, he acted like the dinner was just another interruption to his peace.
"Does it matter?" he muttered, scrolling.
Damian Volkov, the new eldest at 24, leaned back in his chair with a cold smirk. He had Alexei’s sharpness, but none of his warmth. If Alexei was fire… Damian was ice.
"He shouldn’t come," Damian said simply. "He was the reason Alexei died"
Mrs. Volkov stiffened.
Alina shot him a glare.
Mr. Volkov stared into his wine like he wished it were stronger.
Silence swallowed the room again.
Everyone avoided that topic.
Everyone except Damian.
"Damian, stop it" Alina said sharply, her voice trembling with anger.
Damian scoffed, swirling the wine in his glass without a care in the world.
"Stop it or not, it’s the truth," he said calmly. "I still see no reason why he hasn’t been locked in a psychiatric hospital yet. He’s mad. Mentally deranged. They should chain him down before he hurts someone again"
Mrs. Volkov gasped softly.
Leonid paused his game for half a second, then continued tapping.
Mr. Volkov closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead.
But Damian wasn’t done.
"Tell me I’m wrong," he continued with a dark smirk. "Tell me it’s normal for someone to drown a man because he touched his cat. Tell me it’s normal to poison our uncle’s dog because the animal growled at him. Tell me it’s normal that he goes out at night and doesn’t return until morning, covered in bruises or blood…"
"Damian!" Alina snapped.
He didn’t stop.
"He is sick. A ticking bomb. And we all know what happened to Alexei. We all know who—"
A soft sound cut through his words.
A quiet meow.
Shadow.
The black cat with yellow eyes strutted into the dining hall, tail flicking.
Every Volkov froze.
Because for Shadow to be here, that means HE'S HERE.
Damian’s smirk dropped instantly.
Leonid lowered his phone.
Mrs. Volkov’s breath hitched.
Slowly… every head turned toward the entrance.
Nikolai Volkov stood there.
Dressed in black from neck to boots.
His cold eyes were fixed on Damian.
He had heard everything.
Shadow brushed against his leg, purring softly like a loyal guardian.